And London is My Game Board
by gauchadeutsche
Summary: Part 6 of the A Chair in Its Proper Place series, also SEQUEL to Algebra for Detectives. Archie comes to Baker Street to spend a whole day with Sherlock...what sort of madness will ensue? Will Baker Street survive? Will Mrs. Hudson have any food left in her cupboard? Will Archie need therapy after a day with Sherlock? Read on and find out! Multichapter, WIP.
1. Chapter 1

**And London is My Game Board**

* * *

I'm back with more Sherlock + Archie bonding! This one will have at least 3 chapters, possibly 4 or 5 (I've written the beginning, the end, and a chunk of the middle, but it needs filling in on both sides). If you're lost, go back and read **Algebra for Detectives**, aka Part 3 of _A Chair in Its Proper Place_.

Chronologically, this is Part 6 of the _A Chair in Its Proper Place_ series, falling between **Morphine and Chips** and **Friendly Advice**, which I will be posting shortly.

* * *

**1. Cynthia's Last Resort**

_October 18, 2014_

Sherlock lay in his favorite thinking position, hands steepled under his chin. Two nicotine patches stood out against the pale skin of his arms, exposed by the wide sleeves of his dressing gown. John, after ten days of checking on Sherlock obsessively when he was home, and texting when he wasn't, had finally relaxed enough to go out. He was at Harry's for the day, leaving his best friend in the excellent care of Mrs. Hudson.

Lestrade was still refusing Sherlock fieldwork, partly due to his injury, and partly for not telling who had shot him. The detective had considered lying, several times, but nothing was convincing enough. Therefore, his week of convalescing was up and he still had no cases. Instead, he was reviewing what he knew of Magnussen in his mind palace.

_BUZZZZZZZZZ_!

Startled, Sherlock looked at his phone. He had not memorized this number or added it to his contacts, but it was one digit off from Archie's number. His mother, then.

He answered on the second buzz. "Hello, Cynthia."

"Hi, Sherlock," the secretary replied, sheepish. "Did I wake you?"

"No, not at all," he answered.

"Listen, I know you're still recovering," Cynthia said, getting to the point, "but I need to meet my ex and his solicitor in London this afternoon, and I've no one to watch Archie. I hate leaving him by himself—"

"It's no problem," Sherlock told her quickly. "Bring him 'round now, and he can spend the day with me and Mrs. Hudson. Go shopping, see your ex, have a nice dinner, and come back when you're ready."

"Really?" Cynthia Ross asked, too relieved to question Sherlock's ready acceptance. "Thanks so much, Sherlock, you're a lifesaver! I know he's been eager to see you!"

"Great, see you soon then," the man replied, and hung up after the goodbyes.

The day was looking up, Sherlock thought, ripping the patches off his arm. Archie had only called twice since his first call to the hospital, but each time revealed more about the clever little boy, and Sherlock was intrigued. No one had admired him for his brilliance until John, and perhaps The Woman, but Archie treated him with a reverence that bordered on hero worship.

It didn't hurt that Archie was capable of holding a five minute conversation without boring Sherlock, a rare gift indeed.

With a grin, Sherlock Holmes stood up—carefully—and headed for the shower. If Cynthia and Archie left their Swindon home immediately, they'd reach Baker Street in an hour and a half.

He took a long shower, washing carefully around his new scar. Mrs. Hudson came and went, leaving a tea tray laden with biscuits and today's newspaper. She really was a jewel among landladies, thought Sherlock, humming as he shampooed his hair. He finally stepped out of the shower when the hot water ran out.

After dressing in his favorite purple shirt and black trousers, Sherlock picked at his breakfast and plucked at his violin, keeping it low to avoid pulling at his injury. He was thus employed when Mrs. Hudson knocked again, ushering in Cynthia Ross and Archie Campbell.

To Sherlock's infinite amusement, little Archie was wearing dark jeans and a button-up shirt in the exact shade of purple as his own, though he wore it unbuttoned over a black T-shirt.

"Hi, Sherlock," Cynthia said, shaking his hand. "Thank you _so_, so much, really. Are you sure you'll be fine?"

"Yeah, we'll be alright," the detective answered, taking in the ink stain on her left index finger, a slight rip in the hem of her skirt, and two white dog hairs clinging to her red scarf. "We have Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your babysitter," said lady told him fondly, then looked down at Archie. "Have you had breakfast yet, young man?"

"Oh yeah, we had a bite at the station," Cynthia answered, "but he's having a bit of a growth spurt; always hungry, this one."

"Ah!" Mrs. Hudson said knowingly. "I have just the thing downstairs."

She went back down to her own flat, presumably in search of baked goods.

"Take all the time you need," Sherlock offered his guest. "Come back when you're ready; we'll be fine."

"Great," she replied. "Remember, Archie is allergic to—"

"Peanuts, shellfish, and soya," the detective supplied.

Cynthia smiled wryly. "You really do remember everything, don't you? Well, I suppose Archie is in good hands, then." She kissed the top of her son's head. "Behave, you. Ring me if you need anything."

"Mum, come on," he sighed, with all the exasperation of a boy who felt too old for these displays.

"Bye!"

She waved and finally left, all black trench coat, brown curls, and swishing red scarf. Mrs. Hudson appeared not a moment later, carrying a tray of scones and jam.

"Oh, those are the _good_ scones," Sherlock commented to Archie, earning a swat on the forearm from his landlady as he took one. "She only brings those out if she _really_ likes you."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson!" the boy said cheerily.

"You're welcome, dear. Enjoy, and don't let this one get you into any trouble!" she warned, brandishing a spoon in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock licked a bit of raspberry jam off his finger, all innocence.

"I mean it, Sherlock! I will be checking every hour on the hour, and if I see any—any explosions, or severed heads, or guns, there will be hell to pay!"

Archie watched through a mouthful of scone, fascinated. Sherlock winked at him.

"I'll have you know, Mrs. Hudson, that Archie and I have had hours upon hours of conversation, and not once have I shown him a severed head or taught him to blow things up."

Perfectly true, of course. He'd shown Archie photos of corpses, both with their heads and without, but no severed heads.

She softened a bit. "Good. You have some common sense, then."

"He's alright, Mrs. Hudson," Archie added, cottoning on, "he helps me with my homework, you know, for school."

"Oh. Well, that's nice," Martha Hudson said, surprised. "I'll leave you to it, then."

When she closed the door, Archie and Sherlock exchanged the universal 'Mothers!' glance and went back to the scones, happy to devour every last one. It didn't take long.

"So," Sherlock said finally, once the plate was empty. "You didn't come here to do more homework, did you?"

Archie grinned. "Nah, I finished it yesterday."

"Excellent," the adult replied, clapping his large hands together.

"Can I help with one of your cases, maybe?" Archie asked hopefully.

Sherlock sighed. "I don't have any yet, unfortunately. I'm still 'recovering'," he moaned, making air quotes. "But," he added, brightening, "if you're still interested in becoming a detective, we can start your training today."

"Really?"

"Sure," the younger Holmes brother answered, getting off his chair and crossing the room to the kitchen sink in a few long strides. He washed his hands vigorously, then turned back to Archie.

"We'll start with a little field trip."

* * *

As always, many thanks to everyone who reviewed _Algebra_ or the Chair series! I've enjoyed reading your comments and your compliments make my day. I have way too many stories going on at the moment, so I appreciate you all for coming back even with my infrequent updates and hectic work schedule. Have a lovely day, everyone!


	2. Chapter 2

**And London is My Game Board**

* * *

Hello again! I've fallen into the black hole that is the Doctor Who fandom, but since I find the idea of DW fanfic intimidating (I've only seen New Who and the Paul McGann movie), I'm sticking to Sherlock.

And now, the field trip begins!

* * *

**2. Archie the Apprentice**

To Archie's great frustration, Sherlock gave no clues about where they were going. He simply ordered the boy to bundle up, and off they went, down the stairs and out to Baker Street.

"Lesson one," Sherlock said, leading Archie towards the park. "A good detective must be observant. It's a fairly nice day, so we'll see lots of people at the park. I'll show you how I use my deduction skills to read people, and see if you can do the same."

It didn't take long to reach the edge of Regent's Park, and they sat on a bench facing the lake. As Sherlock had predicted, there were quite a few people about. Some were rowing on the lake, others lazing on the grass or biking along the water.

"See that woman there?" Sherlock asked, and Archie turned to look. "If I look at her, I can read dozens of details from her face, her clothes, her expression, and all of the little things about her. What do you see?"

The woman in question was a young brunette. She lay on a blanket, propped up on her elbows as she read a book. White earbuds peeked out from under her hair, and one of her feet bobbed along to the beat of her music.

"She's a big fan of _Doctor Who_," Archie began, hesitating. "There's a TARDIS on her jumper, and she has some Circular Gallifreyan on her bag. It says..." Archie squinted. "Andrea. So she's enough of a fan to learn to write in Gallifreyan, or she knows someone who does. And that's definitely the Fourth Doctor's scarf, so she likes classic_ Who_ as well."

The detective nodded, more impressed than he'd expected to be. He had only the vaguest idea of what a TARDIS was (thanks to John), and he could make neither heads nor tails of the lines and circles embroidered on the bag, but Archie had made full use of his own knowledge, and deduced her name and some of her personal tastes from it. He was a rather brilliant little boy, and certainly observant in his own way!

"Good," he said finally, smiling encouragingly. Archie grinned. "Anything else?"

The curly-haired detective in training scratched his nose. "She might have some kind of problem with her feet," Archie added, and Sherlock's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "I think those are orthopaedic trainers, like my godmother wears sometimes."

"Very good," Sherlock told him, now grinning openly. It was _so _refreshing to meet someone with an ounce of observational skills! Archie and Bill Wiggins were worth their weight in gold.

"What else is there?" Archie asked curiously. "What do _you _see, Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, and began. "You mentioned her bag—it's clearly handmade, not just the embroidery, but the whole thing. She's used it for ages; it's worn through, but she's not replacing it. The overall quality of her clothes suggest that it's not for lack of money, so it's sentiment. Someone she cares about gave her that bag, and she likes that person enough to ignore the rip on the bottom corner."

Archie watched, enthralled, as Sherlock flew into deduction mode.

"She's obviously left-handed. You can tell because she turns the pages with her left hand, and she keeps her iPod on her left side. The fading tan on her left hand tells me that she was abroad somewhere sunny this past summer, and that she wore an engagement ring at the time. The ring is gone, so she broke up recently. She clearly bites her nails when she's nervous, and the large, heavy book she's reading on a Saturday morning tells me she's a student, and a serious one at that."

"You're right about the shoes—size eight, and clearly good quality trainers from a well-known orthopaedic shoe manufacturer. If she stands up and walks away while we're here, we might see _why_ she needs them, but for now, let's leave it at that."

"Wow," Archie sighed.

"You never know which details might be relevant to a case until it happens," Sherlock explained. "Sometimes a murder victim will have a wound that is impossible for a left-handed woman of a particular height to inflict, so that would help to rule her out. She might leave prints outside the house, and the rarer the shoe, the easier it is to trace. A broken engagement might be motive for something. Until you know, observe everything."

The detective's apprentice nodded faithfully.

"Look over there," Sherlock instructed, singling out a man with a dog. He stood under a tree, holding a plastic bag and waiting for his bulldog to do his business. "What do you see?"

Archie wrinkled his nose. "He's a Chelsea fan," he muttered, oozing far too much disdain for such a sweet kid. "The scarf gives him away. It looks quite old, so he probably grew up supporting them."

Sherlock didn't know enough about football to confirm or deny, but he trusted Archie's information, if not his bias.

"He's married," he went on, "'cos he's wearing a ring. He's got a mark on his nose, like he usually wears glasses."

"Good," the detective said. "Anything else?"

When Archie shook his head, Sherlock had his turn.

"See the bump on the middle finger of his right hand?" he began. "That's a callus from holding a pen. That means he writes regularly using a pen and paper rather than a laptop, and he is obviously right-handed. I see traces of a white substance on the hem of his jumper. What kind of profession requires lots of reading, writing by hand, and standing close to something that would leave a straight line of white residue?"

"He's a teacher!" Archie cried, grinning in triumph. "That's from standing against a chalkboard."

"Correct," replied Sherlock, satisfied. "You pick the next one."

Archie took his time, eyes moving from the runners, to the families with small children, to the little old ladies, gossiping on park benches. He settled on a tiny woman, seated a few meters away. A woolen hat covered her wispy white hair, and she knitted peacefully, working on what looked like the beginnings of a baby's jumper.

"That lady there," he said to Sherlock. "She has a white cat; I can see the hairs on her skirt."

Sherlock nodded in approval.

"She _had _a wedding band, but not anymore, so she's divorced or widowed," Archie went on. "She has something under her sleeve, a nicotine patch, maybe?" He squinted a bit. "So she was a smoker and is trying to quit. She's knitting something for a baby boy, so she's probably having a grandson soon."

"Anything else?" the detective asked.

"She's diabetic!" cried Archie, suddenly noticing an item falling out of her bag. "She has the little measuring thing," he explained.

"A glucose meter," Sherlock corrected. "Well done, Detective Campbell!"

Archie grinned back. Sherlock added bits of information he'd gleaned about the woman—widowed, nearsighted, retired nurse, had baked this morning—and how he had reached those conclusions, amazing his young apprentice with the depth and breadth of his knowledge.

"Sherlock," Archie asked, very seriously. "You don't actually _tell_ everyone what you deduced about them, do you?"

The detective sighed ruefully. "I used to. It didn't go over very well."

"What made you stop?" Archie wanted to know.

Sherlock stared at the water for a bit, unmoving as he gathered his thoughts. "For many years, I used deductions like weapons, stripping everyone bare of secrets before they could attack me. Some were impressed, and most were furious. It ensured I was left alone, especially at university."

Even a child could see that Sherlock had been bullied for his cleverness. Archie waited in silent solidarity.

"I didn't really stop until John came along. I could take one look at people and know exactly what they'd done and how, but the _why_ was harder to pin down. I'm not good with sentiment," he admitted. "John stopped me when I said things that were Not Good. I still noticed everything, of course, but I didn't say it aloud unless it was relevant to the case. And then I had to leave," he finished. "For two years, I was all alone. There was no one to listen to my deductions anyway, so I kept them to myself."

It wasn't quite true, since he'd shared his deductions with the John in his mind palace, but Sherlock was reluctant to explain _that_ to Archie. His mind palace was not the spotless library of information it had once been. Emotions had crept in, especially after the Fall, and even more so after John's wedding and the shooting.

"So," the detective suggested, clearing his throat. "Try not to offend people _too _much. A little is okay, but if you want to keep your friends, be smarter than I was."

The plea was earnest, uncomfortably so for Sherlock. So he did what he did best, and covered up his emotions with more deduction training.

"Okay! I'll pick someone this time, Archie. How about her?"

* * *

Throughout this fic I'm trying to keep a balance between Sherlock the kid in an adult's body, and Sherlock the grown-up. I hope that's coming across. =P Anyway, I hope you enjoyed; please leave a comment if you're so inclined. See you next time!


End file.
